


the pale orange skirt in the Continental lobby

by Ashling



Category: John Wick (Movies), Tidying Up with Marie Kondo RPF
Genre: Continental Hotel (John Wick), Crack Treated Seriously, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Marie Kondo and John Wick? I SAID WHAT I SAID, POV Outsider, Post-John Wick: Chapter 3 - Parabellum (2019), Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:15:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24367135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashling/pseuds/Ashling
Summary: A silent sigh of satisfaction goes through the crowd.
Relationships: Charon & John Wick, Marie Kondo & John Wick
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22
Collections: Writing Rainbow Make Up Round, Writing Rainbow: Orange





	the pale orange skirt in the Continental lobby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Visardist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Visardist/gifts).



The Continental has an unwritten dress code. It is strict, it is simple, and it is rigorously enforced. Wear whatever pleases you, as long as you look expensive, dangerous, and beautiful. One does not get far in this business without cultivating a keen awareness of even the most subtle hints, and Charon, when displeased, can be quite searing, if only through a slight flick of his eyes. It does not do to displease the concierge.

Today Charon is only warm. Between the true pleasure in his voice and the clothing of the person he is talking to, the entire population of the lobby begins disassembling and reassembling itself.

This woman violates all three principles of the dress code. Not flagrantly, but just enough. A pale orange dress can certainly pass muster, but not one this modest and undramatic, without even a tiny bit of embroidery at the hem for interest. A simple white cardigan on top? Absolutely not. And the woman is wearing coral pink flats, as though she is not aware that she's the shortest person in the room, or indeed, almost any person in New York City above the age of fifteen. But Charon seems happy to see her. He speaks in Japanese.

"Good evening, Ms. Kondo. It has been a long time since last we saw each other."

She dimples. "Too long."

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Behind them, a handful of assassins slip out of the room. Some of them are cautious by nature; others are miffed that this woman can get away with something they can't; and still others are bruised, broken, or cut up from a recent mission and would prefer a drink of cognac in a quiet room to any potential bloodbath. Other assassins stay firmly put, all angling themselves so that they can watch the concierge's desk, either directly or in one of the many elaborately-framed mirrors.

Winston, working closely with the hotel designers, has thoughtfully provided his guests with a common room in which they can always know, at a glance, whether or not someone is walking up behind them with a knife. Of course, everyone is safe at the Continental, but Winston thinks his guests have, on the whole, the personalities of high-strung Thoroughbreds. They're bred and trained for one purpose and one purpose only, at which they're superb, but it makes most of them useless at anything else, including relaxation. In fact, right now, the remaining assassins are thrilled at the prospect that this breach of rules might rescue them from the boredom of fine dining, drinking, live music, gambling, criminal gossip, and sex. It was going to be just another night at the Continental, but now there's a lady with a cardigan.

“Marie Iida has decided to retire,” the woman says, “and when I mentioned to Winston that I am looking for a new translator and companion, he said that he had somebody in mind who might be interested in the position.”

Iida is a name that has not been spoken in the Continental in several years, and upon being uttered, it changes the subtle energy of the atmosphere at once. If the lobby were a kennel, every dog in the place would prick its ears up.

“Ah.” Charon holds up one finger in the universal gesture for _please, give me one moment_ , and in return, the woman smiles obligingly as Charon sends off a message on his phone. Then, with as much ease as if they are not aware of the scores of onlookers, the two of them make small talk about a boutique Osaka hotel that they are both fond of. The details of interior design would bore any other group of dedicated eavesdroppers to no end, but at the Continental, it only whets their appetite. Attentive waiting is a professional skill. 

When the private elevator goes _ding_ , a silent sigh of satisfaction goes through the crowd. They are being treated to the one form of entertainment that can ever beat violence for sheer thrill value: they are witnessing mythology unfolding before their eyes.

Everyone knows the story of John Wick. His life story constitutes an unmatched saga, not only in the history of the Continental, but in the history of all of its affiliates and enemies. It is branded in the minds of all the assassins still working today. Some of them admire the viciousness of his victories, the explosive and undeniable triumph of his exploits. Some of them appreciate the professionalism and paradoxical kindness that won him the respect and loyalty of countless colleagues. And some of them, a larger number than you would think, secretly treasure dreams of a respite like the one that he managed to secure for himself, the handful of precious years in which he was ordinary and unbruised and dearly, fiercely loved. Everyone knows of his rise and fall, his joy and agony, and his story never wears thin with age; on the contrary, it seems to burn brighter with each retelling. Everyone knows the story of John Wick. And everyone knows that John Wick is dead. 

“Hello,” John Wick says. 

For an immortal legend, he looks like a man whom time has touched. There is a new level of paleness to his skin that comes off as nearly bloodless, a few streaks of silver in his hair, a few more wrinkles on his gaunt face, a black leather glove tailored to fit the two fingers he has and three fingers he lacks on his left hand. The black suit sits on his shoulders as if it were tailored to a slightly different body. And yet his bearing is self-possessed, regal. His eyes are steady. 

“Winston is sorry to have missed seeing you. He sends his apologies, and this.” In his good hand is a large black duffel bag.

The woman smiles, not only with her mouth but also with her eyes, a distinct phenomenon that every onlooker picks up on immediately. “Thank you,” she says in faintly accented English. “Are you ready to go?”

“Almost.” John turns to Charon, offers him his hand. Charon takes his hand, shakes it twice, holds on for a moment. A long look passes between the two of them, and not even the most perceptive of onlookers will ever be able to say with complete certainty what that look means. Neither of these men will ever see each other again. No assassin in this room will ever see John Wick again. Nobody will ever see John Wick again, in this universe at least.

But for now, the onlookers do not know it. They are all but vibrating at the revival of the myth and what they imagine is a deal of colossal importance conducted in public, an encrypted message sent from some unknown power to another. They are not wrong in assuming this a monumental beginning. They are only wrong in thinking that this story will have anything to do with them.

Charon lets go first. “Godspeed, Mr. Wick,” he says.

“Be well.” Unexpectedly, John Wick smiles. Then he turns.

For one startling moment, it is as if a character in a movie has stopped mid-line to stare out into the theater audience; John Wick takes in the lobby of the Continental with one searching look. It is not clear whether or not he finds what he is looking for.

“Are you ready to go?” the woman says again, gently. More than a few of the onlookers are mildly surprised to remember that she exists. 

John Wick turns back to her. “Yes.”

With one last wave to Charon, the woman turns and heads for the exit, her flat shoes making absolutely no sound against the marble floor. John Wick’s black brogues thud a little as he follows. 

When the woman pushes open the two big French doors, the sudden stream of sunlight illuminates the tall figure of John Wick, dark against the pale marble beyond, his eyes slanted against the light, his balance slightly forward. Among the witnesses, there will always be debate about the expression on his face, whether it was pure gravity or whether his lips held the hint of a smile. On one thing they all agree: the moment that John Wick strides through the doors is the moment he steps out of life and back into legend.


End file.
